AustLit

Sleepy Lagoon

By

Kester Berwick

CHARACTERS

(The sound. of seagulls and of lazy surf breaking in the, distance at the entrance to Sleep Lagoon.)

Sealing-wax:  (narrating) When I arrived with my postbag at the top of the cone-shaped hill, on that hot Australian morning, I found the lighthouse-keeper humming to himself and painting the white picket-fence again.

(Fade-in to humming and the slap of a paint-brush.)

The Keeper:   Ah, there you are, Sealing-wax! You look as red as your nickname. It’s this blistering sun! What have you got for me this time? More of those long official envelopes, I see. I can't keep up with them pen pushers down in Sydney. Go inside and get your breath while I glance through them. I’ll be with you in half a tick.

(Brief fade-in of seagulls and of lazy surf again.)

Sealing-wax:   (narrating) Turning away, I dragged my burning feet towards the house. When I had gone the length of the cement verandah and thrust open the Frenchdoors, the coolness of the shadowy white-washed walls met me like balm.

In fact, l had never quite got over my first pleasure at finding the sitting-room like that at the lighthouse. Old Alf Langsford – who never looked his years – was certainly lucky. His missus had done him well, at least, as far as the furnishings went.

There were lone linen curtains with chrysanthemums on them. Huge ginger ones! They had once inspired me to write a poem that I called "Fadeless Flowers." But that was long ago. Since then the sun had certainly faded them in parts. But to make up for that, the vases — wedding presents surely — were as bright as ever, standing in neat pairs on the mantelpiece and sideboard. Yes; she had done Alf proudly. On the highly polished table was a lace doyley. She had crocheted it herself… But somehow, I had never approved of Mrs. Langsford.

A few minutes later the Keeper came in, and he was almost as quiet as I was. He hardly said a word, while he was boiling the kettle, and only mumbled about the barometer while we were drinking a few mugs of tea. "Anything wrong, Alf?" I asked him at last.

The Keeper:  (bursting out) It’s those darned letters you brought me! They’re belly aching in the Department that they haven't yet received my inventory. It’s the end of the financial year, you know.

Sealing-wax:  That’s not worrying you, Alf!

The Keeper:  Oh, isn’t it?

Sealing-wax:  I’m well aware that the inventory of properties and stores at the lighthouse is a sort of annual crisis; but just the same it’s never been one to upset you like this.

The Keeper:  And there’s a note here too from the Missus!

Sealing-wax:  Ah, now we’re coming to it.

The Keeper:  She says the daughter-in-law in the Islands isn’t too well. Wonders whether she oughtn't to pay her a visit.

(Slight pause)

Sealing-wax:  And so?

The Keeper:  (curtly) The Missus can go as far as I’m concerned. She’s got enough dough of her own. Had it since before we were married.

Sealing-wax:  (warningly) She might be away a long time.

The Keeper:  That wouldn't be news, would it? If it's how she likes to live, it suits me!

(Sound of something being struck two or three times)

Sealing-wax:  (narrating) With the blade of the pocket-knife he used for cutting his tobacco, he jabbed the bread-board. I knew he was brooding again over the fact that his wife was seldom at the lighthouse. She maintained that it was too dull for her in Sleepy Lagoon, although a mere half-hour's walk would have brought her to the township down by the shore where there was always some drowsy activity, what with the post-office, the pub, the schoolhouse, the general store with its fish-bar, and the shop that sold souvenirs made of shells for tourists. Even when the Keeper had put primrose yellow benches for his missus at regular intervals along the last part of the climb coming back—benches where she could sit and fan herself with her handkerchief because she was plump—it had made no difference. Her idea of happiness was staying in the city with friends, and playing bridge and drinking fancy wines.

At least, that was what Alf had told me. He had also told me about their married son in Fiji, how he was all they had had, and was now a civil engineer in an important government job. Indeed, old Alf told everyone about his son. "Well, what about that inventory?” I asked, wiping my moustache. "Shall we have a look at it now?" He merely grunted, and getting up went towards the door. I followed closely behind him.

(There is the sound of the two men going up a metal winding-staircase. Their clanging footsteps quickly get fainter.)

The Keeper:  There it is!  Over there with the ledger and inkstand on the desk. Five pages of it! Run your eye over them, and then post the damn thing off to Sydney pretty soon. Can you read it?

Sealing-wax:  (reading) “Twenty gallons of paint. Seven pints of turps. Eleven brushes. Putty. Sand-paper. Lead-pencils, etc., etc.“ Of course I can read it. You write like a schoolboy, Alf, as I’ve often told you. Everything seems to be there; but later I’ll go through it properly. You know how you sometimes put down the same item two or three times.

The Keeper:  All right. Rub it in!

Sealing-wax:  (narrating) The winding-staircase had brought us up to the “lamp." From outside, it looked rather like a caged bubble on top of an old-fashioned white villa. But here inside it was a small octagonal room with eight panes of glass with oil-lamps and reflectors behind them. There was the gleam of polished copper and silver, and a strong odour of kerosene. Despite the way the Keeper kept everything looking like new, I had often suspected that this equipment was long out-of-date; but my consideration for his feelings had never let me mention it. At various headlands along that mountainous east coast there were slender towers which at night cast clear beams, some blinking, some revolving. But whereas they were to guide ocean-giants on long voyages, “Alf’s lamp,” as it was called, was merely to help small fishing craft to find their way back to Sleepy Lagoon. I likened it to a “warm glow in a window welcoming them home," and I'd written a poem on it with those words winding in and out of the lines.

(A few bars of a sea-chanty are played softly and rather hesitantly on a recorder.)

Sealing-wax:  (narrating) The Keeper had picked up a rough, homemade flute, and was absently playing a fragment of something or other on it. A bit of a song, I suppose, from his early sea-faring days. I didn't comment, and folding up the inventory, I placed it for safety in an inside pocket. I knew that with that knife of his, Alf frequently spent hours cutting whistles and so on out of pieces of wood and bamboo—things which needed sharing with a child. Then he stood gazing out—not over the Pacific where a plume of smoke from a passing steamer was hovering; but over the shining arms of Sleepy Lagoon which, as they receded inland, lost themselves in the blue haze of valleys. When he spoke again, he didn’t turn round.

The Keeper:  (abruptly) I get my leave shortly. It always falls due soon after the inventory's gone in.

Sealing-wax:  So it does. Where are you going this time, Alf?

The Keeper:  Up there again of course. Where I'm looking.

Sealing-wax:  To the far reaches of Sleepy Lagoon?

The Keeper:  Too right! Same as I did last year and the year before that.

Sealing-wax:  A bit lonely for you, isn't it, Alf?

The Keeper:  Lonely? Pah! I don't mind. I’m used to that by now, aren't I? A rowing boat. A good supply of tucker. A fishing-line. For days on end, l wear nothing but a hat. You never see a soul. That's the sort of thing that makes me happy.

Sealing-wax:  (doubtfully) Go on, does it, Alf?

The Keeper:  Of course it does! I ask for nothing better.

Sealing-wax:  (narrating) when I said Goodbye to him shortly afterwards, he was still staring into the distance.

While Alf was away on leave, I swapped my round and delivered letters to another part of Sleepy Lagoon. The relieving keepers were different kind of men from Alf Langsford, and I would have hesitated to tell them that I wrote poetry. In fact, I kept away from the lighthouse until I heard that Alf was back on duty. However, when I had once more climbed to the top of the cone-shaped hill, I was met by an elf-like child who came running toward me. About four years old I would have said she was. Alf’s missus, looking plumper than ever, promptly appeared on the verandah. "Keep away from the picket-fence, Priscilla!” she called anxiously. "Nasty wet paint!”
But the child ran on. I had barely time to reflect that Alf must have been busy once more with his brushes before she reached me, and flung her dimpled arms about my knees. I heaved her up to my shoulder. Carrying her back to the house, I noticed that Alf‘s missus was dressed entirely in black. She was beckoning to me, and didn’t seem a bit stand-offish as she usually was.

Alf's Missus: (vigorous and friendly) oh, there you are at last, Sealing-wax! We’ve been looking out for you. Alf and I were sure you would turn up before long. I’ve made some scones and kept the kettle boiling.

Sealing-wax:  (guardedly) What’s happened?

Alf's Missus:  You’ll guess pretty soon...Run ahead, Priscilla, and say that sealing-wax is here. Don’t fall down on the cement...
(fading) Now, Sealing-wax, come in.

Sealing-wax:  (fading in) But—but— (Then very alarmed) But where are the curtains with the ginger chrysanthemums on them?

Alf's Missus:  Oh them! Those old things! I burnt them. We needed these new ones. So modern and cheerful. You’re surprised aren’t you? (breaking into cheerful laughter) Also you’re surprised to find yourself sharing a chair with a rag-doll.

Sealing-wax:  (groaning) There’s onion-weed stuffed in the vases, and the lace doyly is on the floor.

Alf's Missus:  (laughing again) Now, don’t you really know what’s happened? You’ve seen her. I flew back with Priscilla. That’s what’s happened. Both my son in Fiji and I thought that under the circumstances it was for the best. Alf and I will look after her.

Sealing-wax:  Here?

Alf's Missus:  Yes.

Sealing-wax:  (hesitating) Was your son’s wife so ill then?

(Alf's Missus does not answer. For a few moments the distant booming of the surf is audible again.)

The Child:  (suddenly calling from somewhere outside) Grandpa! Grandpa!

Alf's Missus:  I can see that you're shocked to hear Alf addressed like that.

Sealing-wax:  I asked if your son's wife were so ill then.

Alf's Missus:  (quietly) Yes; it was very sad. A little brother or sister for Priscilla was on the way, and I had been in Fiji hardly a week when my son’s wife died.

Sealing-wax:  (in an awed whisper) Died!

(The distant surf as before.)

The Child:  (calling again, this time louder and. nearer) Grandpa! Grandpa!

Sealing-wax:  (narrating) Then the keeper was dragged in. He was younger than ever – and smiling! Admittedly the smile was sheepish; but it was enough to give a good showing of his strong, even teeth. I began to tie knots in my handkerchief. The teapot had been refilled several times, and the scones were all eaten, when Alf, now with the child on his knee, learned towards me.

The Keeper:  Sealing-wax, you being a batchelor, wouldn’t understand, I reckon, this kind of thing.

Sealing-wax:  Which? What?

The Keeper:  I mean that you wouldn't understand how I could, come back to the lighthouse and, on finding a tyrant here, like it!

Alf's Missus:  Sealing-wax doesn’t know whether you mean Priscilla or me, Alf. (She gives a short, friendly laugh.)

The Keeper:  No; Sealing-wax, you old fool! I didn't mean the Missus, so you needn't go on glancing from one to the other.

Sealing-wax:  (with embarrassed honesty) Well, I couldn’t be quite certain, could I? But now that you’ve made it clear, I understand perfectly. Perfectly! (with dignity) I assure you that I do.

Sealing-wax:  (narrating) I understood that, however happy the Keeper had thought he was before, and how ever happy his missus had thought she was before, when they had both gone their own way, they were going to be really happy now, with something they could love and share between them. With little Priscilla! As a poet I was privileged to know this. My fingers itched for a pencil. I resolved that as soon as I got back to the post-office, I would take some telegram forms, and on the back of them write a poem about it.

Yes, I would!

(fading) No one else at Sleepy Lagoon ever used them.

(The sound of seagulls and of lazy surf breaking at the entrance to Sleepy Lagoon as at the beginning.)